Looking at these paintings, it's hard to believe I've been sober for eight years. But it feels good to do something for its own sake, results be damned.
They're like another species to me, these people who believe they know what's going on and what will happen next.
The memory of sitting in a church in a different country feels as though it belongs to some lost golden age.
I need a word for the slightly hungover sensation after a mindless bout of clicking and scrolling—a term for shaking off the digital residue.
“Sometimes I think they are graceful like ballerinas,” he said as we drove. “Other times, I think they are wicked.”
"You'll be working at least seventeen hours on Election Day," he said. "So bring a sandwich."
Sometimes I idle in the parking lot of a strip mall after midnight. 
I’ve been dreaming about tollbooth operators lately, maybe because they remind me of the years I spent working at a gas station.
These days the sight of someone’s mouth at the supermarket looks like an obscenity. We can get used to the strangest things.
The amount of incense smoke that darkens a temple’s ceiling indicates the popularity of that particular god.
This pandemic season reminds me of the logic of grief: the constant loop of forgetting followed by painfully remembering that everything has changed.
“I need to go outside,” I heard an old man say. “Otherwise the bad juju starts bouncing off the walls.”